Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  Blowne with reuenge of Gauestons disgrace,

  Awakes the Barrons from their nightly rest,

  And maketh way to giue the Spensers place,

  Whose friendship Edward onely doth embrace;

  By whose alurements he is fondly led,

  To leaue his Queene, and flie his lawful bed.

  This Planet stirr’d vp that tempestious blast

  By which our fortunes Anchorage was torne,

  The storme where-with our spring was first desac’d,

  Whereby all hope vnto the ground was borne:

  Hence came the griefe, the teares, the cause to mourne.

  This bred the blemish which her beauty staind,

  Whose vgly scarr’s, to after-times remaind.

  In all this heat his greatnes first began,

  The serious subiect of my sadder vaine,

  Great Mortimer, the wonder of a man,

  Whose fortunes heere my Muse must entertaine,

  And from the graue his griefes must yet complaine,

  To shew our vice nor vertues neuer die,

  Though vnder ground a thousand yeeres we lie.

  Thys gust first threw him on that blessed Coast

  Which neuer age discouered before:

  This luckie chaunce drew all King Edward lost,

  This shypwrack cast the prize vpon his shore,

  And thys all-drowning Deluge gaue him more;

  From hence the sunne of his good fortune shone,

  The fatall step, to Edwards fatall throne.

  That vnckle now, whose name this Nephew bare,

  The onely comfort of the wofull Queene,

  And from his cradle held him as his care,

  And still the hope of all his house had beene,

  Whilst yet this deep hart-goring wound is greene,

  On this well-seene aduantage wisely wrought,

  To place him highly in her princely thought.

  He saw his inclination from his birth,

  A mighty spirit, a minde which did aspire;

  Not of the drossy substance of the earth,

  But of the purest element of fire,

  Which sympathizing with his owne desire,

  Name, nature, feature, all did so agree,

  That still in him, himselfe he still might see.

  The temper of his nobler moouing part,

  Had that true tutch which purified his blood,

  Insusing thoughts of honor in his hart,

  Whose flaggie feathers were not soyld in mud,

  The edge he bare declar’d the mettall good;

  The towring pitch wherein he flew for fame,

  Declar’d the ayrie whence the Eagle came.

  Worthy the Grand-chyld of so great a sier,

  Braue Mortimer who liu’d whilst Long-shanks raign’d,

  Our second Arthur, whom all times admire,

  At Kenelworth the Table round ordayn’d,

  And therein Armes, a hundreth Knights maintaind;

  A hundreth gallant Ladies in his Court,

  Whose stately presence royaliz’d this sport.

  And whilst this poore wife-widdowed Queene alone,

  In thys dispayring passion pines away,

  Beyond all hope, to all but heauen vnknowne,

  A little sparke which yet in secrete lay,

  Breakes forth in flame, and turnes her night to day,

  The wofull winter of her sorrowes cheering,

  Euen as the world at the faire Sunnes appearing.

  Yet still perplexed in these hard extreames,

  All meanes deprest which might her faith prefer,

  Blacke foggs oppos’d in those cleere-shining beames,

  Which else might lend their friendly light to her,

  This in her lookes direfull reuenge doth stir:

  Which strange eclipse plac’d in this irefull signe,

  Our Countries plague and ruine might diuine.

  Her snowy curled brow makes anger smile,

  Her laughing frowne giues beauty better grace,

  Blushing disdaine, disdaine doth quite exile,

  Sweet loue and silence wrestling in her face,

  Two capering Cupids in her eyes do chase;

  Her veynes like tydes oft swelling with delight,

  Making Vermilion faire, white more then white.

  Her beauty florish’d whilst her fauours fade,

  Her hopes growne old, but her desires be yong,

  Her power wants power her passion to perswade,

  Her sexe is weake, her will is ouer-strong,

  Patience pleades pitty, but reuenge her wrong;

  What reason vrgeth, rage doth still denie,

  With arguments of wrathfull iealousie.

  Pale Iealousie, child of insatiate loue,

  Of hart-sick thoughts with melancholie bred,

  A hell tormenting feare no faith can moue,

  By discontent with deadly poyson fed,

  With heedlesse youth and error vainely led,

  A mortall plague, a vertue-drowning flood,

  A hellish fire, not quenched but with blood.

  The hate-swolne Lords with furie set on fire,

  Whom Edwards wrongs to vengeance doe prouoke,

  With Lancaster and Herford now conspire,

  No more to beare the Spensers seruile yoke,

  The bonds of their alegiance they haue broke:

  Resolu’d with blood theyr libertie to buy,

  To liue with honor, or with fame to dye.

  Amid thys faction Mortimer doth enter,

  The gastly Prologue to thys tragick act:

  His youth and courage boldly bids him venter,

  And tells him still how strongly he was backt:

  Synon perswades howe Illion might be sackt;

  The people still applauding in his eares,

  The fame and credite of the Mortimers.

  Thys vapor-kindled Commet drew her eyes,

  Which now began his streamie flagge to reare;

  This beauty-blushing orient of his rise,

  Her clowdy frownes doth with his brightnes cleare,

  The ioyfull’st sight that euer did appeare;

  The messenger of light, her happy starre,

  Which told her now the dawning was not farre.

  As after pale-fac’d Night, the Morning fayre

  The burning Lampe of heauen doth once erect,

  With her sweet Crimson sanguining the ayre,

  On euery side with streakie dappl’s fleckt,

  The circled roofe in white and Azure deckt,

  Such colour to her cheekes these newes do bring,

  Which in her face doth make a second spring.

  Yet trembling at the Spensers Lordly power,

  Their wrongs, oppression, and controling pride,

  Th’vnconstant Barrons, wauering euery houre,

  The fierce encounter of this raging tyde,

  No stratagem yet strongly policied;

  Shee from suspition seemingly retyers,

  Carelesse in shew of what she most desires.

  Grounded aduice, in danger seldom trips,

  The deadliest poyson, skill can safely drinke,

  Fore-sight stands fast, where giddy rashnes slips,

  Wisdome seemes blinde, when eyed as a Linxe

  Preuention speaketh all but what he thinks;

  The deadliest hate, with smyles securely stands,

  Reuenge in teares doth euer wash his hands.

  Loe for her safetie this shee must desemble,

  A benefite which women haue by kind,

  The neerest colour finely to resemble,

  Suppressing thus the greatnes of her mind,

  Now is shee shrowded closely vnder wind,

  And at her prayers (poore soule) shee plainly ment,

  A silly Queene, a harmelesse innocent.

  The least suspition cunningly to heale,

  Still in her lookes humilitie shee beares,

  With patience she with
mightines must deale,

  So policie religions habite weares,

  He’s mad which takes a Lyon by the eares.

  This knew the Queene, and this well know the wise,

  This must they learne, which toyle in Monarchies.

  Torlton the learnedst Prelate in the Land,

  Vpon a text of politicks to preach,

  Car’d not on Paules preciser poynts to stand,

  Poore Moralls to beleeuing men to teach,

  For he at Kingdomes had a further reach:

  This learned Tutor, Isabell had taught,

  In nicer poynts then euer Edward sought.

  Now in meane time, the smothered flame brake forth,

  The Mortimers march from the westerne playne,

  The Lords in armes at Pomfret in the North,

  The King from London, comes with might and mayne,

  Their factious followers in the streetes are slayne.

  No other thing is to be hop’d vpon,

  But horrour, death, and desolation.

  Like as Sabrina from the Ocean flancks,

  Comes sweeping in along the tawny sands,

  And with her billowes tilting on the bancks,

  Rowles in her flood vpon the westerne strands,

  Stretching her watrie armes along the lands,

  With such great furie doe these legions ryse,

  Filling the shores with lamentable cryes.

  Thus of three hands, they all set vp theyr rest,

  And at the stake their liues they franckly lay,

  Hee’s like to winne who cuts his dealing best,

  And for a Kingdome at the least they play,

  The fayr’st in show must carrie all away;

  And though the King himselfe in sequence came,

  He sawe the Queene lay right to make his game.

  But Fortune masking in this straunge disguise,

  Whose prodigie, whose monster he was borne,

  Now in his lyfe her power, t’anotomize,

  Ordayning him her darling and her scorne,

  His Tragedie her triumph to adorne.

  Shee straight begins to bandy him about,

  At thousand ods before the set goes out.

  As when we see the spring-begetting Sunne,

  In heauens black night-gowne couered from our sight,

  And when he yet, but fewe degrees hath runne,

  Some fennie fogge damps vp his gladsome light,

  That at his noon-sted he may shine more bright.

  His cheerefull morning Fortune cloudeth thus,

  To make his day more fayre, more glorious.

  Edward whom daunger warnd to dread the worst,

  Vnto the hart with poysned ranckor stung,

  Now for his crowne must scuffle if he durst,

  Or else his scepter in the dust were flung,

  To stop the head from which these mischiefes sprung.

  First with the Marchers thinks it fit to cope,

  On whom he knew lay all the Barrons hope.

  Like to a whirle-wind comes this irefull King,

  Whose presence soone the Welchmens power had staid,

  The Cornish yet theyr forces fayld to bring,

  And Lancaster too slacke forslow’d theyr ayd,

  Faynt-harted friends, their succours long delayd.

  Depriu’d of meanes, forlorne of farther good,

  And wanting strength to stem so great a flood.

  They who perceiu’d, their trust was thus betrayd,

  Their long expected purpose thus to quayle,

  How mischiefe still vpon their fortune playd,

  That they perforce their high-borne top must vayle,

  This storme still blew so stifly on their sayle.

  Of Edwards mercy now the depth must sound,

  Where yet their Ankor might take hold on ground.

  This tooke the King in presage of his good,

  Who this euent to his successe apply’d,

  Which coold the furie of his boyling blood,

  Before their force in armes he yet had try’d,

  His sterne approch this easely molified

  That on submission he dismist theyr power,

  And sends them both as prisoners to the Tower.

  Not cowardize but wisedome warnes to yield,

  When Fortune aydes the proud insulting foe,

  Before dishonour euer blot the field;

  Where by aduantage hopes agayne may growe,

  When as too weake to beare so great a blowe:

  That whilst his pittie pardons them to liue,

  To his owne wrongs he full reuenge might giue.

  LOE now my Muse must sing of dreadfull Arme•,

  And taske her selfe to tell of ciuill warres,

  Of Ambuscados, stratagems, alarmes,

  Of murther, slaughter, monstrous Massacarres,

  Of blood, of wounds, of neuer-healed scarres,

  Of battailes fought by brother against brother,

  The Sonne and Father one against the other.

  O thou great Lady, Mistris of my Muse,

  Renowned Lucie, vertues truest frend,

  Which doest a spyrit into my spyrit infuse,

  And from thy beames the light I haue dost lend,

  Into my verse thy lyuing power extend.

  O breathe new lyfe to write this Tragicke storie,

  Assist me now braue Bedford for thy glorie.

  Whilst in the Tower the Mortimers are mew’d,

  The Barrons drew their forces to a head,

  Whom Edward (spurd with vengeance) still pursu’d

  By Lancaster and famous Herford led,

  Toward eithers force, forth-with both Armies sped.

  At Burton both in camping for the day,

  Where they must trye who beares the spurres away.

  Vpon the East from bushie Needwoods side,

  There riseth vp an easie clyming hill,

  At whose fayre foote the siluer Trent doth slide,

  And all the shores with ratling murmure •ill,

  Whose tumbling waues the flowrie Meadowes swill,

  Vpon whose streame a Bridge of wondrous strength,

  Doth stretch her selfe, neere fortie Arches length.

  Vpon this mount the King his Tents hath fixt,

  And in the Towne the Barrons lye in sight,

  This famous Ryuer risen so betwixt,

  Whose furie yet prolong’d this deadly fight,

  The passage stopp’d, not to be wonne by might.

  Things which presage both good and ill there bee,

  Which hea•en fore-shewes, yet will not let vs see.

  The raging flood hath drownd vp all her foards,

  Sok’d in excesse of cloud-congealed teares,

  And steepes the bancks within her watrie hoards,

  Supping the whir-pooles from the quaggie mears,

  Now doth shee washe her tressed rushie hayrs.

  Swolne with the dropsie in her grieued woombe,

  That this her channell must become a Toombe.

  O warlike Nation hold thy conquering hand,

  Euen sencelesse things doe warne thee yet to pawse,

  Thy Mother soyle on whom thy feete doe stand,

  O then infrindge not Natures sacred lawes,

  Still runne not headlong into mischiefes iawes:

  Yet stay thy foote in murthers vgly gate,

  Ill comes too soone, repentance ost too late.

  And can the cloudes weepe ouer thy decay,

  Yet not one drop fall from thy droughtie eyes?

  Seest thou the snare yet wilt not shunne the way,

  Nor yet be warn’d, by passed miseries?

  Or ere too late, yet learne once to be wise.

  A mischiefe seene, may easely be preuented,

  But beeing hap’d, not help’d, yet still lamented.

  Behold the Eagles, Lyons, Talbots, Bears,

  The Badges of your famous ancestries,

  And shall they now by their inglo
rious heyrs:

  Be thus displayd against their families?

  Reliques vnworthie of theyr progenies.

  Those Beastes you beare doe in their kinds agree

  And then those Beasts more sauage will you bee?

  Cannot the Scot of your late slaughter boast?

  And are you yet scarce healed of the sore?

  Is’t not inough you haue already lost,

  But your owne madnes now must make it more?

  Your Wiues and Children pittied you before.

  But when your own blood, your own swords imbrue,

  Who pitties them, which once haue pittied you?

  What, shall the Sister weepe her Brothers death,

  Who sent her Husband to his timelesse graue?

  The Nephewe moane his Vnckles losse of breath,

  Which did his Father of his lyfe depraue?

  Who shall haue mind your memories to saue?

  •r shall he buriall to his friend afford,

  Who lately put his Sonne vnto the sword?

  But whilst the King, and Lords in counsell sit,

  Yet in conclusion variably doe houer,

  See how misfortune still her time can fit:

  Such as were sent the Country to discouer,

  Haue found a way to land their forces ouer.

  Ill newes hath wings, and with the winde doth goe,

  Comfort’s a Cripple, and comes euer slow.

  And Edward fearing Lancasters supplyes,

  Great Surry, Richmond, and his Pembrooke sent,

  On whose successe his chiefest hope relyes,

  Vnder whose conduct halfe his Armie went,

  And he himselfe, and Edmond Earle of Kent,

  Vpon the hill in sight of Burton lay.

  Watching to take aduantage of the day.

  Stay Surry stay, thou maist too soone begon;

  Stay till this rage be some-what ouer-past,

  Why runn’st thou thus to thy destruction?

  Pembrooke and Richmond, whether doe you hast?

  Neuer seeke sorrow, for it comes too fast.

  Why striue you thus to passe this fatall flood,

  To fetch new wounds, and shed your neerest blood?

  Great Lancaster, sheath vp thy conquering sword,

  On Edwards Armes, whose edge thou should’st not whet,

  Thy naturall Nephew, and thy soueraigne Lord,

  Both one, one blood, and both Plantaginet.

  Canst thou thy oth to Longshanks thus forget?

  Yet call to minde, before all other things,

  Our vowes must be perform’d to Gods and Kings.

  Knowe, noble Lord, it better is to end,

  Then to proceed in things rashly begun:

  Which o•t ill counseld worser doe offend,

  Speech hath obtaind, where weapons haue not won;

  By good perswasion what cannot be done?

  And when all other hopes and helps be past,

  Then fall to Armes, but let that be the last.